


What a Man Regrets

by Muriel_Perun



Category: Kung Fu - Fandom, NOT The Legend Continues
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Non-Sexual Slavery, Plot, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:20:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/pseuds/Muriel_Perun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still in search of his brother Danny, Kwai Chang is lured to a ranch where he expects to find honest work. What he actually finds will delay his quest and cause him great pain, but will also allow him to make sense of--and to finally atone for--an expedient lie told in childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Man Regrets

 The man walked down the road, thinking of the past. What was behind him, he knew, but of what lay ahead he was ignorant.

 

_“Master Po, how does a man find the courage to travel an unknown road, knowing as he must that some evil might befall him?”_

_“If a man knew what lay before him, he would either race towards it with eager steps, or tremble as he drew nearer to it. Knowing nothing, he walks towards both good and evil with measured steps, neither hastening towards the good nor avoiding the evil.”_

_“Would it not be better if a man knew what lay before him so that he could embrace the one and avoid the other?”_

_“Grasshopper, if men knew their fates, whether good or ill, they would fear to put one foot before the other. It is better that a man should walk through the world in a cloud, neither anticipating the good nor fearing the ill, content to find what he finds, expecting nothing.”_

 

Little swirls of dust rose up from Kwai Chang’s quiet steps in the well-worn road. The mid-summer’s heat pressed on him from above and rose from below. He had not seen a fresh source of water in several days. The cattle troughs and stale ponds along the way had neither quenched his thirst nor held enough water to wash his body. A generous traveler several miles back had offered him a drink from a water skin that had held only a mouthful of tepid liquid tasting like the leather that held it. Since he did not partake of animal flesh the taste had been foul and unpleasant, but, wishing to survive, Kwai Chang had drunk a small amount, thanking the man for his kindness and hoping that he would find another source of water before his need grew urgent.

There was hardly a breath of air to cool his skin except what was created by his own relentless motion forward. His hair stuck to his face and the dust settled on the fine sheen of sweat that covered his exposed skin. He felt it, but he did not move to wipe his face or push the hair or dust out of his eyes. All his energy was focused outward on the land and sky around him as he moved forward at a steady pace. It was so hot at midday in the California sun that even the birds hardly stirred. Their song was reduced to an occasional distant trill and no feathers whispered in the brush at his approach.

Something buzzed past his ear and then hovered in front of him, seeming to look into his face as he looked back. A dragonfly, glowing blue in the liquid sunlight.

 _Hello, little brother,_ Kwai Chang thought. _You know the dark places where water lies. Have you come to lead me there?_

The dragonfly traced a quick circle and returned to its study of his face. Kwai Chang smiled, his eyes on the bright blue wings. Buzzing, the insect darted ahead and the man followed.

Kwai Chang walked as he had before, with a long, steady stride that ate up the miles without haste. The dragonfly wove itself in and out of his path, speeding ahead and then returning from behind, or grazing the brim of his hat as if in play. Always it returned to its study of his face before rushing off to some new adventure where its human friend could not follow. Kwai Chang walked on patiently, neither hopeful nor expectant.

A small opening in the trees by the side of the road signaled a trail like many others, beaten down by the hooves of deer and the paws of small animals seeking a way through the underbrush. The dragonfly buzzed down it, then returned to circle Kwai Chang’s head and shoot quickly off into the darkness. It did not come back. Bowing his head, Kwai Chang stepped off the road into the dimness of the forest and followed the narrow trail.

Soon it narrowed even further, and he was forced to hold his hands in front of his face to guard against branches and underbrush. When the trail had almost disappeared, it suddenly widened into a clearing, and when Kwai Chang entered the clearing and stopped to listen he heard the sound of running water.

Now it was clear which way the water lay. The earth was beaten flat, sloping down towards the stream that was still hidden among the trees. Animals, and people, too, had used this source for perhaps centuries. Kwai Chang followed in the footsteps of so many thirsty creatures.

As the burbling of the stream grew louder, something changed suddenly in the tenor of the birdsong, and Kwai Chang knew he was no longer alone. The thought did not worry him. He continued at the same pace, watching for the human being he knew awaited him near the water.

An old man sat on a rock in the shade of an elm, his face dripping. With one hand he poured water over his shorn head from a metal canteen, while with the other he fanned his face furiously with a peaked Chinese hat woven of straw. The water had dripped down to mark with dark stains the blue cotton shirt and pants he wore, faded with many washings and dusty from the road. The clothing was Chinese, Kwai Chang saw it at a glance. The man was Chinese, too, a man of perhaps 60 winters who was no stranger to hard work. His bare feet were tough and callused, his hands gnarled and sinewy, his body wiry. Kwai Chang had approached so silently that the man had not yet opened his eyes, but he did so now, and they widened with fear in a deeply lined face, tanned and wrinkled with sun and wind.

Kwai Chang bowed from the waist to show respect. “Greetings, father,” he said in Chinese. The man started and jumped to his feet, dropping both hat and canteen in his fear.

The man glanced furtively towards the pack at his feet. “What do you want?” he asked querulously. “I have nothing of value.”

Not wishing to startle him further, Kwai Chang spoke very quietly. “I seek water.”

“Down there.” The man pointed hastily towards the sound, his mouth working with fear. Kwai Chang nodded once and continued towards the sound of the water.

In a few steps he was walking on a bare expanse of rock, heated by the sun, where no plant besides a few hardy trees rising from crevasses had been able to take root.   The rocks sloped down quickly, and he found himself looking at a little waterfall that tumbled from above into a sheltered pool. The sight was so inviting that he shed his clothing quickly and plunged in, letting the water run over his head and into his open mouth. For a long time he savored the freezing water on his hot and dusty skin. When he emerged from the water he lay on the rocks for a moment to dry his skin before dressing. Rinsing his empty canteen, he filled it and started back up the trail.

The old man still sat by the elm, but this time he eyed Kwai Chang speculatively, as if he had been waiting for him.

“Please excuse my rudeness earlier,” he said eagerly. “I have been set upon by thieves in places such as this.” Kwai Chang bowed his head in acknowledgement and continued up the trail. “Wait, son, wait,” the man said hastily. “If we are following the same road, will you walk with me? Are you going north or south?”

“North,” answered Kwai Chang.

“Ah, then you are going to Santa Rosa?” A nod. “May I ask what your business is there?”

Strangers one met on the road were often curious, so it did not seem odd to be asked. “I seek a man, my brother, who works for a rodeo. I was told he passed this way and was perhaps to be found in Santa Rosa.”

“Ah, ah,” the man said thoughtfully. “Well, a rodeo passed through Santa Rosa two weeks ago, but it is gone now. I have just come from there.”

Disappointment weighed heavy in his chest, to be quickly replaced with resignation. It would be yet more time before he met Danny. “Has it passed on to another town?”

The old man shrugged. “Perhaps they have traveled further north. I cannot say.” He fell silent. A fly landed on his ear and he brushed it away with a too emphatic motion.

Kwai Chang watched him. “You travel south, then?”

“I will travel north for a short way. I wanted to stop at this spring, so I passed the trail where I must turn aside into the great wetlands that skirt the hills. Now, that is an arduous journey for one as old as I!” He picked up his pack and started along the trail. Kwai Chang followed. “The mosquitoes are as thick as buffalo on the plains.” He paused in his steps and looked back at Kwai Chang. “Or perhaps you have not seen the buffalo. Have you worked on the railroad?”

“Yes. I have seen the buffalo.”

The old man nodded, smiling broadly, and continued to walk. “Yes, and from the look of you, you have swung a hammer, too. Ah, the buffalo. There were so many, each time a white man shot one, another came to take its place. The mosquitoes are like that, like a curtain of rain. And the way is wet and muddy, and the mud clings to your feet as if it wants to keep you there in the swamp for all time. Ugh.”

“Why do you go there if it is so arduous?”

“I must go back to my _boss_.” He said the word in English, and then looked speculatively at Kwai Chang again. “You look like a man who knows how to work hard. What is your name? I am named Ho Zhou, but these Americans call me Hozu. You may call me that.”

“I am Caine.” Kwai Chang gave his American name, as always in this country.

Hozu frowned. “That is not a Chinese name. Was your father an American?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good, then you have a name the Americans can say. They like that.” Hozu didn’t speak for a few moments as the trail became steeper and rejoined the road. As they left the forest, the dust reflected the fierce light into their wide-open eyes. Kwai Chang squinted, waiting for Hozu to catch his breath. The sun was much lower now. Soon it would drop behind the trees and give them a respite from the blinding light and oppressive heat.

Starting along the road, they were silent, hearing nothing besides their own footfalls but the trilling of insects and the chattering of birds. A woodpecker’s rhythmic tapping echoed through the air. Hozu’s careless steps raised more dust than Kwai Chang’s measured ones. It rose in the still air and settled against their skin and clothing. They walked until sunset when a slight breeze stirred the warm air. Then they sat by the side of the road and shared some provisions. Kwai Chang had roots and dried berries, while Hozu had venison jerky and some hardtack.

“Why do you not partake of meat, my son?” Hozu asked, chewing vigorously on a shred of jerky. “It gives you strength.”

“Why should the deer give his life so that a man can eat?” Kwai Chang took a handful of berries and ate them slowly, savoring their sweetness.

“Why not?” Hozu took a swig of water that dripped down his chin. “The deer is food to the mountain lion. Why not to Caine?”

Kwai Chang smiled. “Because Caine can find his food in other places. It is not necessary to kill in order to eat.”

 

_Kwai Chang and Master Po paused in the center of the bridge when they heard a falcon cry. Looking up, Kwai Chang saw the falcon seize a sparrow in mid air and fly off to land in the top of a tree, where, with its sharp talons and beak, it tore its prey apart and ate it with delight. Kwai Chang turned away sadly._

_“Would you ask me something, Grasshopper?”_

_“Why does the falcon eat the sparrow, Master?”_

_Master Po laughed. “It is in the nature of the falcon to eat the sparrow. What would you have him eat?”_

_Kwai Chang shook his head. He had meant something different. “I feed the sparrow crumbs out of my hand. It looks at me kindly, but when it flies off, a falcon seizes it and eats it as it eats the crumbs. Is that the purpose of a sparrow’s life? Must the strong always vanquish the weak, and do the weak exist only to be vanquished?”_

_Master Po swung his cane out to indicate the river below them. “How can you say that the strong always vanquishes the weak? Does not the river wear away its bed? Do not the bare feet of nameless disciples wear away the stone steps of our monastery? Does not the sparrow, when he escapes, condemn the falcon to starvation?”_

_“Yes, Master, but more often it is the strong one who wins and the weak one who is vanquished.”_

_“Do you think it so? And what of the ways we teach of wearing down an opponent’s strength by submitting to it?”_

_Deep in his train of thought, Kwai Chang continued without considering his master’s words. Questions burst from his mind like seeds from a pod. “To turn an opponent’s strength against him, first we must be strong. And so we make ourselves strong in body and mind, but why? So that we may not be vanquished like the sparrow?”_

_“We do so that we may help the weak, not prey upon them.”_

_“A strong man who preys upon the weak knows that it is wrong,” Kwai Chang said with conviction._

_Master Po smiled. “Do you think he always knows it, Grasshopper?”_

_“The falcon is strong. And, so, is it wrong for the falcon to prey upon the sparrow?”_

_Master Po tapped his cane lightly upon the wooden slats of the bridge and moved on. “It is in the nature of the falcon to eat the sparrow,” he said over his shoulder with a mischievous smile._

_“But it is not in the nature of the man to eat the sparrow. We are one with all things, and therefore we do not take a life in order to satisfy our hunger. Why therefore are the falcon and the crane and the tiger permitted to sate their hunger in this way?”_

_Master Po shook his head and smiled. “Ah, Grasshopper, if you would, could you stop them?”_

 

After having passed the night in a clearing by the side of the road, the two men started off in the cool of early dawn. They had few provisions left, but Kwai Chang gathered some small, ripe fruits from a bush growing by the road, and the men ate them as they walked along.

“You know the plants of the forest well, my son,” said Hozu. “But you speak Chinese like a man born in China.”

“I was born in China,” said Kwai Chang.

“And yet your father was American.”

“Yes.”

They walked in silence for a time. The sun as it rose painted the trees pink and then golden, and the sky went from gold to pale blue to the deep blue that signaled a very hot day. The birds sang a deafening chorus in the trees and brush.

“Do you seek work, my friend?” asked Hozu suddenly. “My _boss_ is always pleased to employ men with strong backs who are willing to work hard.”

“I am willing to work hard,” said Kwai Chang, “if it is work that I know. What kind of work does your _boss_ offer?”

“He has a grand estate, a _rancho_ , just across the wetlands, among the hills. He has many horses, and there are other things.”

Kwai Chang nodded. “Ranch work, then. I know ranch work. And I can work with horses.”

“And other things,” said Hozu nervously.

“What other things?”

“Digging and such,” he said vaguely. “He has great plans. Will you come?”

Kwai Chang considered. “If I start for Santa Rosa now, perhaps I will be able to find my brother. He cannot be too far ahead. I must decline your generous offer.” He bowed.

Hozu bowed in answer. “The rodeo that you seek passed through many days ago. They took the train for the Oregon territory, I heard. I did not remember when you asked me before,” he added quickly. “Do you have money for the train?”

“No,” Kwai Chang said quietly. “I have but a few coins.”

“Ah,” Hozu said with something like satisfaction, “then it will take you many weeks to walk to Oregon. Who knows where the rodeo will be by then?”

They walked in silence until they reached a point where a trail snaked off through the wetlands. They halted together in the road. Off in the distance a hawk mewed and a rabbit screamed. Hozu turned to face him.

“Will you come with me across the wetlands, Caine? I am but an old man, and I fear the passage.”

“What do you fear? Are there bandits in the wetlands?”

“I have never met any, and yet I fear them. Perhaps I am just a weak old man.” Hozu looked frail and fearful as he spoke. “I fear the tall reeds and the strange sounds of the marsh. I hear animals cry out and yet I do not see them. I fear that there are ghosts hidden in the reeds.”

Kwai Chang smiled indulgently. “Is there no other reason you wish for my company, old man?”

“My _boss_ has asked me to watch for strong men who can do an honest day’s labor for him. You seem to be such a man. If you will come with me perhaps he will hire you. He pays me for each man I bring to him, but he will pay you, too. Come, it is not too far. Just up in those hills.”

Kwai Chang looked down the road towards Santa Rosa. Perhaps his brother had traveled this same road but a few short weeks before. But Hozu said that Danny and the rodeo had already moved on.

Something was calling Kwai Chang towards the wetlands, where birdsong and the mysterious rustling of reeds seemed to beckon him. The noonday sun threw a harsh light over the landscape. The dusty road to Santa Rosa shone with a golden glow that extended as far as he could see, blinding him, while the swamp was mottled green and gold, with dark patches where his eyes could make out nothing. Something in Hozu’s wheedling tone stirred up a distant memory.

 

_“Come with me, boy,” the old man said insistently._

_“No, sir, I cannot. I must return to the monastery.” The sun was setting, and the shadows under the trees were growing longer._

_“I know the Shaolin teachings,” the man said, “and I know that you are obliged to help others when they require it of you.”_

_“My first duty is to obey my teachers. Please, sir, let go of me.” The man’s grip on his upper arm was tight and painful. “I will help you carry your burden as far as I can, but then I must take the road up Songshan Mountain.”_

_The man’s face drew closer, and Kwai Chang saw the cruelty in his eyes that had been hidden earlier. “Fool, I do not need a boy to carry my parcel. I need a boy to fetch my water, chop my wood, bring my mother-in-law her tea. No one from the monastery will ever come and seek you. You are a poor orphan boy, are you not?”_

_Kwai Chang felt that his life hung in the balance. If the man dragged him off, he would become a slave. What if the thing the man said were true? No one would seek him. He was a new boy at the monastery—a poor orphan. If he disappeared, he would soon be forgotten. The lie flew from his lips before his mind had formed the words._

_“I am no orphan boy. I am the nephew of the Emperor’s favorite concubine, Sung Mai. I have been sent to the Shaolin Monastery to be educated. It is not permitted to touch me. Let me go, or I will tell my aunt and she will tell the Emperor!”_

_The words sounded so shrill and sad as they poured out on the chill evening air like a lamb’s bleated cry that Kwai Chang despaired. He knew nothing about the Emperor or his favorite. The man would see through his pathetic trick._

_But the iron band around his arm loosened and the man fell to his knees. “Spare me, sir,” he said beseechingly. “I was only testing your mettle. I knew who you were all the time.”_

_Pulling away, Kwai Chang ran all the way up the mountain, afraid that if he looked behind him he would see the old man dogging his heels like a nightmare. He did not pause until he ducked under the disciples’ gate and dropped to the dormitory floor gasping for breath._

_He looked up suddenly into Master Khan’s stern face. “Did devils chase you back up the mountain, Student Caine?” he asked._

_“Oh, Master,” he said, still panting hard, “a man tried to take me for a servant boy, but I got away.”_

_“How did you escape?”_

_Kwai Chang looked at the stone pavement, suddenly ashamed. “I made up a lie. I said I was an important person and that he had no right to touch me.”_

_“Indeed, he had no right to touch you, that much was true. But why make up a lie about being an important person? Do you feel so very important, then?”_

_“No, Master. I feel very unimportant.”_

_“Ah. Then did you think we would let you be stolen from us so easily?”_

_“Master,” he said fearfully, wondering if he was about to be dismissed, “I am but one of many here. I did not think that my disappearance would be noticed.”_

_The master smiled sadly. “Disciples are like pebbles in the stream. One pebble more or less will not seem to make a difference, but the absence of one will change the stream forever.” He turned to leave._

_“But, Master,” he said, feeling great distress, “what of my lie?”_

_“What would you have me do? Shall I dismiss you?”_

_Kwai Chang stared at him, appalled. “You will do what you think is right, venerable sir,” he said, barely able to form the words._

_Master Khan nodded, satisfied. “Yes, I shall. Now, think about why a lie came so easily to your lips when the truth might have served you as well.   You were in great fear, and you defended yourself as best you could, Student Caine. You lied to save your life. But could you have used truth rather than falsehood to accomplish the same end?”_

_“Yes, Master,” Kwai Chang said, realizing it was true, “I could have told him that you would look until you found me. I am ashamed.”_

_Master Khan smiled. “You will stay here today because you did not compound the lie. A lie told out of fear is but a small shame. A lie told to cover up a first lie is a great shame. Many lies told to accomplish the same end are the greatest shame of all.”_

_“Why, Master?”_

_“Because when a man tells many lies, he begins to believe them, and when a man believes his own lies, he loses himself.” He turned once more to look back at his disciple, still lying on the floor, but hanging on his every word. “Even a small lie, even one told to save your life, can spread violence through the world.”_

_“How can it do so, venerable sir?”_

_Master Khan shook his head sadly. “That man will take another boy, one perhaps not so fortunate or resourceful as yourself. Think of that boy’s life.”_

_Kwai Chang thought of it, and his lips parted in horror. “I thought only of myself,” he said, hanging his head. “The truth might have kept this man from taking another. Oh, Master,” he asked in great distress, “what can I do to help that boy who will be hurt by my lie?”_

_“Now you can do nothing. But one day, perhaps, when that lie has grown and gathered strength, it will return to you and give you the chance to unsay it.”_

 

Kwai Chang looked into the old man’s expectant eyes. Hozu had told him both lies and truth.   That he wanted Kwai Chang to come with him was certain, but why? For profit? Perhaps Danny was still in Santa Rosa, just a day’s journey away. He turned his eyes once more towards the road to Santa Rosa. It seemed so tantalizingly simple: a straight road with a town at the end of it where his brother awaited him. A sudden breeze blew at his back, pushing him down the path through the swamp to the golden hills beyond. An old man had asked him for a kindness. It was of no consequence that he had lied or that his lies had reminded Kwai Chang of the man on the mountain road. Kwai Chang was no longer a frightened child, and he would grant the kindness, lies or no. With resolution he turned his eyes back to his companion.

“I will come with you, old man,” Kwai Chang said. “I will see what work your _boss_ might have for me.” The breeze brushed by them, stirring the dust and rattling the hollow reeds like dry bones.

“You will not regret it.” Hozu smiled broadly, panting a little with heat and relief. His face was damp with sweat. Bowing several times, he took Kwai Chang’s arm and drew him towards the swamp.

***

As they entered the marsh, they followed a trail over sandy soil that descended into mudflats. The trail snaked around large clumps of the reeds that Hozu informed him were known as _tules_ , and occasionally skirted an unexpected stretch of what looked like quicksand. Kwai Chang would hardly have known where to trust his steps without the careful markers that had been set up here and there, intricate piles of stones, shells, and bird bones. He wondered who had left them.

The birdsong stopped as they passed and started again after, for the old man walked along chattering as merrily as any bird. Looking around him, Kwai Chang’s heart rejoiced to see a place so full of life. He saw the great blue heron rise before them, fish in beak, and bowed to its majesty. Hozu scarcely seemed to remark it once he got over his fear at its sudden flight. As they passed by some _tules_ , a little mud wren shrieked among the reeds. Kwai Chang caught glimpses of it in its hiding place, all red mouth and flicking tail.

 _I see you, little brother,_ he thought, smiling. _You hide and yet you cry out to reveal yourself to me. Why?_

He turned to the old man. “I am grateful,” he said, bowing his head.

Hozu blinked at him, shying away in surprise as if avoiding a blow. “What for?” he cried, as shrill as any wren.

“For leading me down this path,” Kwai Chang replied, and as he said the words it came to him with a rush of infinite sadness that he was about to be, perhaps already had been, betrayed. And yet he continued to place one foot in front of the other. Something in those golden hills called out to him with a strong, insistent voice. Something awaited his presence to unfold.

It was clear now that, like the old man who had tried to detain him on the road to Songshan Mountain, Hozu wanted something from him, perhaps his strength, perhaps his very life. Kwai Chang could have walked away at that moment, never to learn the substance of the lie. He squinted at the golden hills that almost loomed over them now. Once, long ago, the child Kwai Chang had lied out of desperation and had spent years regretting the fate of the unknown boy who had not lied. This time Kwai Chang would not resist. His lie had come back to him in Hozu’s mouth. From Hozu’s lie, consequences would follow, as they had from Kwai Chang’s. Kwai Chang would not let his friend face them alone. To close that circle, to unsay the lie, it was necessary to follow this path through the marsh. He had no knowledge of what awaited him at the end of this road. What would happen, would happen.

 ***

They left the swamp and began to climb. In the forest it was cool under the thick, entwined branches of the oaks. Here the only birdsong was the occasional trill of some lone singer, then the whisper of feathers gliding through sibilant leaves.

Kwai Chang’s spirit responded to the peace of his surroundings, but he sensed his companion grow more and more agitated by his side. As they crested a hill the path before them spiraled down into darkness, its surface covered with several seasons’ thickness of dead leaves. A stream chuckled far below them, sending a damp spray into the air. The footing became treacherous. Light-footed, Kwai Chang moved securely down the slope, but Hozu slipped and nearly fell. Kwai Chang took him by the elbow and set him back on his feet.

“Thank you, son, thank you,” the old man muttered.

“Is something wrong?” Kwai Chang asked him kindly.

Hozu mopped his brow with his sleeve. “I am fatigued. I must rest soon.”

“Very well, we will rest.” Kwai Chang found a relatively level spot and moved to lay down his burden.

“Not here,” Hozu said sharply. “A little further on there is a better spot.”

They continued until the path became level again and they entered an open spot where the trees thinned out. In a moment, Kwai Chang saw why. There was a village here, a stand of round thatch huts made from the sort of reeds they had seen in the swamp. To one side, there was a pool fed by the babbling stream, now visible as it tumbled into the pond and was becalmed, its waters caught by a small dam and tamed before being set free to wander again down the hill. Enchanted, he sat on the beaten earth and looked around, only to realize that something was wrong.

The pond was brackish, the clearing still. There were no children playing, no adults at their tasks. At the edge of the clearing several huts were black with soot from burning, collapsed in on themselves.

“Where are the villagers?” Kwai Chang asked.

“My employer, who recently acquired this land, moved them away,” said Hozu with a mixture of unease and self-importance.

Kwai Chang looked around. “Did they willingly move from such a place?” Something dark sang to him under the calm of dappled sunlight and dancing water. People had died here.

“In a manner of speaking. They had to go, of course. They had no choice.”

“Why?”

Hozu looked at him resentfully. “Because another owned the land.”

“How long had they lived here?”

“Oh, generations upon generations,” Hozu said, full of pride for his boss’s power. “The whole hillside was covered with villages like this one.”

“And because some money changed hands, they had to leave?” Kwai Chang asked. “Could there be no compromise?”

“He gave them work. You yourself seek work, do you not? In this country we all need money or we will starve. Come, I have rested enough. You will meet my _boss_ now.” He got up painfully and resumed his burden.

***

The forest ended abruptly and before them spread out the glory of a series of meadows, lush with thick grasses and wildflowers. The trail widened and became even rougher. Wagon wheels had left ruts that were eroded by running water to expose sharp rocks. Kwai Chang took his companion’s arm to steady his faltering steps. Gradually the slope became gentler, the footing more secure. Hozu pulled his arm away and began to walk a bit ahead of him although the path was wide enough for two. With pleasure Kwai Chang watched the bending grasses shine and dance in the wind. Far to his right, almost at the edge of the forest, a line of men moved slowly through the meadow, walking one by one and carrying digging tools.

“There,” said Hozu, pointing straight ahead. “That is the colonel’s house.

Kwai Chang saw a large white house in a copse of tall trees. The rear of the structure was merely scaffolding, dissolving into a tangle of building materials, and to one side lay the half-consumed ruin of an old adobe house. As the path curved around to begin its final descent towards the house, it passed a corral full of handsome chestnut horses and a series of outbuildings. The clank of a blacksmith’s hammer, iron against iron, clove the air. Kwai Chang looked beyond the house and saw, at the end of another wide meadow, a road, and beyond that golden hills backed by the distant blue mountains that hid the sea

“There,” said Hozu again. “Look!”

A man stood before the house in a large, fenced enclosure containing a long thicket of bushes and trees that seemed to be an overgrown orchard. Hands on hips, he stood solidly, waiting, or looking, as if he had much to watch or to consider. There was an ease about his pose and yet a restlessness in the way his gaze swept relentlessly over the landscape. Hozu began to run with a hobbling gait, as if desperate to reach this man’s side. Kwai Chang did not change his pace. Hozu reached the man and began talking excitedly, indicating Kwai Chang with a nervous gesture. Kwai Chang heard Hozu’s voice rise and fall, but he could not make out the words. From a distance it sounded again like birdsong, the cry of the angry little wren that scolds passers-by from a hiding place it never dares to leave

As Kwai Chang drew close, Hozu’s voice subsided. The other man turned from Hozu then, and Kwai Chang looked into his eyes, through them, and in an instant he knew that this man would move heaven and earth to get what he desired, but that he could never be satisfied because the world itself was not half so large as his desire. It was the look he had seen in the eyes of the Emperor’s nephew the moment before he killed him

“This is Caine,” Hozu said eagerly. “He will work hard for you. You can trust him. There is no need to treat him like the others.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the man said curtly. Bending down, he retrieved a shotgun from the ground, and Kwai Chang knew that the move was not casual. “Does he speak English?

“Yes, oh, yes, Colonel, very good English.

The gun was pointed at the ground, but the man’s finger played lightly over the trigger. “What’s your name?” he asked, looking over Kwai Chang’s body without meeting his eyes. The Colonel was a strong-looking, long-limbed man, taller than Kwai Chang by a hand’s breadth, and he wore his height commandingly. Clean-shaven except for a mustache a darker shade of brown than his graying hair, his weathered face was all angles, his cheekbones high, and his chin was deeply cleft

“I am called Caine,” Kwai Chang said softly. He did not wish to work for this man

“What kind of work can you do? Don’t bother lying. I’ll know.” The man looked up suddenly, and Kwai Chang was startled by the brilliant blue of the eyes that looked down into his. Those eyes told Kwai Chang all he needed to know about this man. As before, he was struck by their coldness. The colonel was a man who always felt he was alone, and although he didn’t realize it, he craved the human contact he spurned. Kwai Chang looked back at him steadily and watched as the color mounted in those high cheekbones. The colonel had expected him, as an inferior being, to look away when their eyes met. It was not good to be around such a man. Kwai Chang could do nothing here, except perhaps to help Hozu leave this man’s employ.

“You have no work that I can do. I must continue on my way,” Kwai Chang said softly. He bowed his head and turned to go, but a grip like an eagle’s talon took his arm to pull him back around. Leaning into the iron grip, Kwai Chang pivoted and threw the colonel off balance, preparing to kick the shotgun from the man’s other hand. But the colonel had already dropped the gun, and as Kwai Chang turned, the colonel backhanded him hard across the mouth. Moving with the blow, Kwai Chang avoided some of its force, but it still sent him to his knees. He tasted blood. On either side of him he heard the metallic click of guns being cocked to fire.

“Don’t shoot!” the colonel yelled. As they had struggled, Kwai Chang had been conscious of others entering the clearing where they stood, and now he looked around himself to see who they were. What he saw made him give up all thought of fight or escape.

From the trees had emerged the line of men that Kwai Chang had see earlier, only now it became obvious why they were walking one by one in the meadow instead of side by side. Seven men were bound together in a line, attached by iron chains linked to heavy metal bands around their necks and ankles. Their clothes were tattered and filthy, and their backs were bowed, not with any physical burden, but with the hateful fate that bound them to this man, their owner. Their eyes looked down at the earth instead of at the sky, and there was no trace of life in any of their gazes. Those who looked at Kwai Chang at all looked at him dully, without interest, as if they awaited nothing from life besides their master’s next order.

These dark-haired, dark-eyed men with tawny skin were men from the ruined villages, enslaved. Kwai Chang stared at them, amazed. Now, for the first time, he knew the enormity of the lie that had enslaved them. It was right that he was here. He had been brought to this place to share their burden, and share it he would until he could lift it from them all. However bitter it might be to face as an adult a lie that had saved him from enslavement as a child, he would not abandon these men as he had abandoned that unknown boy. The years he had spent at the monastery had made him all he was, had given him everything that was precious to him. This was the price of those years, and he would pay it.

 

_Standing with Master Po by the side of the road, Kwai Chang feared the crush of the crowd. He did not wish to be separated from his master in this press of people._

_“Look, Grasshopper,” said Master Po, “here is the Emperor’s brother in his litter. Tell me what you see._

_“I see a well-dressed man who stares straight before him,” Kwai Chang said, wondering how Master Po knew exactly when the Emperor’s brother was passing without being able to see him. “He never looks at the people who look at him._

_“And does he walk, this man?” Master Po asked in his loud blind-man’s voice that sometimes embarrassed Kwai Chang when they were in out public together._

_“No, Master. He rides on a gold and lacquer chair carried by eight strong men.”_

_“Eight! Is he, then, a giant among men?”_

_“No, Master. He is of a usual size for a man. It is the chair that is so heavy as to require eight men.” The litter lumbered past them, almost close enough to touch, and Kwai Chang dropped his eyes from the splendid, hand-embroidered brocade of the man’s clothing to the faces of the men who carried it. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but what he saw made him feel suddenly sick. He gasped softly and knew that his master would hear it._

_“What ails you, Grasshopper? Is the press of the crowd pulling air out of your lungs? Do you feel faint?”_

_“No, Master.”_

_“Then why did you make that sound?” There was no use denying it. Master Po always knew, and obviously this was where he had been steering Kwai Chang from the beginning._

_“When I looked into the faces of the men who carry the litter, I saw…” Kwai Chang trailed off uncertainly._

_“Ah, Grasshopper! A man dressed in splendid robes passes by, and you look at the men who bear him as a burden down the street?”_

_“Was…was that wrong, master? I looked at the Emperor’s brother and then I looked at the chair and the men who carried it. I looked at everything before me.”_

_Master Po chuckled. “As I have taught you to do. And, looking so, what did you see? Did the men not look happy to be carrying a sacred personage on his way?”_

_“No, venerable sir, they did not look happy. They did not look happy or sad. Their eyes were empty. What was that look, master? I did not recognize it.”_

_Master Po laid a hand on his shoulder and turned him away from the parade still progressing down the street. “Although our students at the monastery work hard, they do not have that look in their eyes.”_

_“No, master, they do not. I have never seen a man look that way, as if he were no longer a person.”_

_“It is the look of servitude, Grasshopper,” Master Po said. “When you see someone with that look in his eyes, it means that his spirit has been broken by forced labor and humiliation. He has been given so many orders that he no longer remembers he has free will.”_

_“And what shall I do when I meet such a person? Would it not be right to help him?”_

_“Of course, Grasshopper. But remember that such a person might be beyond your help, for when a man forgets he is a man, he can no longer recognize other men.”_

“Settle down, boy,” said the colonel as if Kwai Chang were a nervous horse. “Put your hands behind your back, now, and you won’t get hurt.”

Looking down at the earth, Kwai Chang allowed the colonel’s overseer to bind his hands behind him with a length of rawhide.

“Well,” the colonel said with satisfaction, “he looks strong, and he speaks English, too. Not a bad catch, Hozu.” He chuckled without humor. “Must be pretty stupid, though, to fall for your story. What did you tell him, anyway?”

“He needed work,” Hozu said faintly. “But I did not think—”

“You’ll get what I promised you,” the colonel said curtly. “Harris, take him down to the smithy and get him set up. I want him working in an hour.”

Kwai Chang let the man’s proprietary grip haul him to his feet and steer him back up the path he had just followed down. His sleeping roll and Master Po’s bag lay in the dirt where they had fallen. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hozu pick them up furtively.

The sound of the blacksmith’s hammer grew louder until they were in the forge itself. The hot air blew Kwai Chang’s hair back from his face, and the scent of hot iron made him think of blood. The man behind the forge was old but vigorous, wearing a full beard streaked with gray. His muscled forearms flexed as he tapped the metal of a horseshoe into shape. Sparks rebounded from his green apron as he squinted against the heat. Dark scars dotted his arms and a large seam of flesh disfigured the back of one hand. Finishing his task, he dropped the horseshoe into a bucket of water, which hissed and bubbled, throwing a cloud of steam up before Kwai Chang’s eyes so that he saw the man as if though a length of silk.

“This here’s to get set up for the gang,” Harris drawled.

“Where did you find him?” the blacksmith asked in a hard, clipped voice.

“Hozu picked him up along the road.” Harris grinned to reveal a row of rotten teeth and one gold one.

“Damn,” the blacksmith swore, dropping his hammer back among his tools with a little too much force. He went to a hook on the wall and took down two shackles. With a shudder of distaste, Kwai Chang realized that they were for him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply to restore his calm. When he opened his eyes, the blacksmith was looking at him carefully. “Get the hell out of here, Harris,” the man said curtly.

“I got to protect you from this here,” Harris said insolently.

“He won’t hurt me. Go back to my son and tell him he’ll run afoul of the law if he keeps picking men up off the road and slapping irons on them.”

“This here’s a Chinee,” Harris said. “T’ain’t no law ‘bout making slaves out of something that ain’t quite a man.” He folded his arms as if daring the other to make him leave.

The smith picked up a hammer and held it menacingly in one hand. “He’s probably more of a man than you are, you lout. Where were you during the war? It’s barely ten years finished. You’re not a child. Don’t you know what we fought for?”

Harris backed up slowly.   “I was on the Plains fighting Injuns in the 60s. I weren’t ruinin’ the country for no blackamoor slaves.” He ducked out the door, laughing.

The blacksmith muttered and threw down the hammer. “Now, don’t you give me any trouble,” he said to Kwai Chang, “or Harris will shoot you, and he’ll enjoy doing it, too.” When Kwai Chang was silent, he turned to Hozu who had come in and was squatting awkwardly in the corner next to Kwai Chang’s things. “Does he speak English?”

“I speak English,” said Kwai Chang.

“What’s your name?”

“It is Caine.”

“Well, Caine, I have to chain you up, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so you just hold still now, and you won’t get burned.” He fitted the large shackle around Kwai Chang’s throat.

“You are the colonel’s father?” Kwai Chang asked, feeling his throat vibrate against the iron band.

“I am,” the man answered “not that he likes to admit to being the son of a smith.” He unbuttoned the top of Kwai Chang’s shirt and let it fall back from his shoulders.

“And you disapprove of what he does?”

“It’s not my place,” said the smith, “nor yours, neither. He’ll let you all go as soon as the garden is done. He needs labor and it’s hard to find a man who wants honest labor in these parts.”

“I came here for honest labor,” said Kwai Chang, “but that is not what I found.”

“Enough of that talk. Turn around,” said the smith, pushing his shoulder.

When Kwai Chang turned, he faced Hozu. Behind him he heard the smith putting something into the fire. The flame jumped, lighting Hozu’s pale face and accenting the sorrow and guilt in his eyes.

“I am sorry, Caine,” he said softly. “I did not know that—”

The blacksmith’s hammer sounded against the anvil. Kwai Chang was tired of lies. “What price did you ask for taking a man’s freedom?”

“I did not…I thought…” Hozu looked down. “I will be his houseboy. I will no longer have to do hard labor. Sometimes I will travel to meet the stagecoach and get his papers as I did today, but the rest of the time I will serve food and polish silver, and churn butter, and help the maids. He said I had to find someone to replace me or he would chain me up with the others.” He looked down for a moment and then met Kwai Chang’s eyes a little defiantly. “I am too old for such work. You are young and strong. He will feed you well while you work, and when the garden is finished he will pay you and let you go.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Kwai Chang said, as he felt something very hot near the skin on the back of his neck.

“Hold still, now,” said the smith. “I’m threading the ring through the loops. I’ll be done in a moment, but it has to cool or it’ll burn you.”

“Will you do me a small service?” Kwai Chang asked Hozu.

Hozu looked afraid. “What?” he whispered.

“Keep my possessions for me until I can leave.”

“Yes, yes, I will keep them with my own things.” Hozu picked them up out of the straw and slung the straps over his shoulder.

“Just a few more minutes until it’s cool,” the blacksmith said.

Kwai Chang stood still, feeling the iron around his throat. Slavery was a weight, a burden on his soul, pushing down his spirit just as the iron collar pushed his body towards the earth. The smith set to work on his ankle.

Over the next few weeks, Kwai Chang labored as hard as he ever had in his life, but although his labor served a purpose for the colonel, for Kwai Chang it was empty of all joy and all reason. Gradually, he began to understand how hard work could kill the spirit rather than make it rejoice.

The joy that he often took in labor, in feeling his strength work in concert with his mind, was shattered by the chains. As he raised his pickaxe above his head to slam it down into the earth, the metal ring around his neck stuttered against his collarbone. The band around his ankle changed his balance when he walked through the woods and meadows, shadowing their beauty.

This was a beautiful place that had lost its soul. Kwai Chang imagined the forest as it had been before, full of families working when it was necessary, stopping when they wished to eat or talk. In another time, laughter had rung out in the meadows and among the old oaks. Now the men did forced labor in the fields and the women worked in the house as maids, serving the colonel’s wife and sister, who never approached the men. There were no children in sight, no contact between the men and women.

At dawn, the slaves were woken and fed, usually with a hunk of hard bread or something left over from the night before, served cold and eaten with their hands. They began work before the sun had truly risen, sometimes cutting down and clearing brush and tall weeds in the old orchard—planted many years before when the land had been a Spanish rancho—with the winey scent of fallen apples all around them, other times clearing a meadow for crops. They were fed again when the sun was high and insects hovered in the dusty air, buzzing in their ears as they sweated over their work. A jug of water was passed around frequently during the day, but although they passed it to each other and sometimes met each other's eyes, they did not, could not, speak.

Kwai Chang learned that the others who labored by his side spoke only Spanish and their own language. Only two of the overseers could speak to them, to translate the colonel’s desires into actions. And, although the others looked at him sometimes, he had the sense that they were too wrapped up in their own misery to be very curious. How he would gain their confidence, he did not know. Kwai Chang could have freed himself ten times over, but he would not go until he could free them all, and without any unnecessary violence. He knew that if the men suddenly found themselves free and armed, with their pent-up rage they would murder every white man on the ranch. He had no way to tell the men how to escape without alerting their captors. If the colonel and his men saw slaves escaping, they would shoot them down with no mercy.

Once they spent a week up on the hill clearing a course for the stream so that it might travel to a basin that the colonel had ordered constructed near the house and from there to the house itself, which had internal plumbing. Other men came to work on the house, men who lived in the bunkhouse with the overseers and farm hands and collected wages. When the house was finished, a month after Kwai Chang's arrival, they moved on.

The slaves worked every day until the sun set in an orange haze behind the hills and then they were given hot food prepared by the women who worked in the house, who were not permitted to approach the laborers. Instead, the overseers brought the food from the house: pots of stew or beans, trays of tortillas and cheese. Many nights, Kwai Chang ate only the warm tortillas because the other food contained animal flesh. He could have found many things to eat in the forest, but the overseers never let him. So afraid were they when the men carried shovels or scythes or axes, that they stood, shotguns ready, watching silently as the work went on. Kwai Chang felt that he could not have bent to pull a plant out of the ground without being seen, and there was nothing to eat in the orchard anyway. The apples on the trees were not yet ripe, and those on the ground from previous years had dissolved into a rich-scented paste that nourished soil but not men.

At night they were strung back on their chain like beads and confined in a large barn stall where each hardly had room to stretch out and sleep. Exhausted in body and spirit, they all should have slept soundly, but they often groaned or moved in their sleep, shaking the chain and awakening everyone. Kwai Chang longed to sit quietly and meditate, but he was always surrounded by others—the sounds of their speech, the smell of their bodies. The hours when they were released from the chain to work separately he suddenly felt as if he could breathe more freely. Even in the monastery dormitory he had never felt so hemmed in by others, so confined.

And yet it wasn’t the men themselves who oppressed him so, but rather the exercise of another’s will over them all. The men interested him as he was always interested in people. As he came to know them as individuals, he gradually learned their names, both the Spanish names the overseers called them and the names they used among themselves. There was Sitala, the oldest, a gray-haired man to whom everyone deferred, with whom the young men shared their food and water then there wasn’t enough to satisfy all. There were Litonya and Malila, the brothers, two men in their late teens who worked together and slept shoulder to shoulder. Then there was the youngest of the group, named Liluye, a boy of perhaps fifteen who often sat staring into space with his face full of rage, who jerked the chain and threw down tools, attracting the ire of the overseers. Kwai Chang remembered what it had felt like to be that age trying to master the whirlwind of feelings and desires that lived inside him. To suffer such captivity and still feel what a boy of that age must feel would be almost impossible to bear. Without guidance, perhaps he would not survive it.

The other three men were young, in their early twenties, and Kwai Chang knew them all by their characters without having spoken a word to them. Huata he knew as a steady worker, Huyana by his kindness towards others. Taipa often looked at Kwai Chang when he thought he wasn’t observed. Kwai Chang sometimes wondered if that man could understand what he said, but when he spoke or tried to meet the man’s eyes, he turned away. Kwai Chang was always surrounded by men and yet always alone. Even Hozu never spoke to him anymore, but only looked on him from a distance as he did his chores at the house.

The four overseers were large men who had gone to seed through too much food and leisure and too little work. Their bellies were as broad as their shoulders, and Kwai Chang wondered why the colonel did not simply pay them to work instead of to watch the slaves. He supposed that this work was considered to lie beneath the dignity of the white man, much like building the railroad, which was seen as so dangerous that only expendable and inexpensive Chinese men were hired to do it.

Two of the men, Diego and Compesino, were part Spanish and could speak with the village men. He noticed that they stayed together, and that Franklin and Harris, the whites, were more likely to socialize with the ranch hands in their spare time.

Occasionally the colonel paid them a visit while they worked, standing off to one side and surveying their progress with his eagle eyes. Although Kwai Chang only looked at the colonel when his eyes happened to turn in that direction, he noticed that the other workers looked at their owner often with eyes full of hatred. This seemed to please the colonel, because he kept a superior smile on his face while he watched their work and encouraged the overseers to push them to work faster and harder, which always resulted in a few indiscriminate blows being distributed over the backs of the workers. When the colonel left, both workers and overseers fell back into their usual routine. The overseers, while not overly considerate of their charges, were lazy enough that they had little desire to stir up trouble to no effect.

One day when the colonel came to watch them, Kwai Chang saw him speaking to the overseers and gesturing here and there. He carried papers that he pointed to, shaking his head and talking quickly. When Kwai Chang looked at him and heard his words, he saw true passion in the man’s face, but it was a passion that burned too brightly, a passion that swept away everything in its path.

“This will be the grandest house in California,” the colonel was saying, “and this garden will rival those at Versailles or Hampton Court, although in miniature, of course.” He continued excitedly, naming names and talking about elegance and refinement. Kwai Chang, who had stopped work for a moment to observe this scene, had not heard of the places or people the colonel mentioned, and he could see from the overseer’s perplexed expression that he had not heard of them either.

As if he wished to impress his employer with his diligence, Compesino came up close to Kwai Chang and nudged him with the muzzle of his shotgun. “What are you looking at, Chinaman? Get back to work.”

Glancing at him, Kwai Chang returned to his task, pulling dead brush and weeds out from around the base of a tree. He felt the colonel come up behind his left shoulder, but he did not turn.

“You, Caine, turn around,” the man said. Kwai Chang stood and turned to face him. The colonel was staring at him with contempt, looking at the dirt on his knees and the sweat soaking through his shirt in streaks. “Something’s not quite right about you,” the colonel said thoughtfully. “You’re not full Chinese.”

“No.”

The colonel seemed at a loss to know what to do with that information. But something about Kwai Chang seemed to fascinate him. “Were you born in this country?”

“No.”

“Where did you come from? Where have you been before this?”

“Many places.” Kwai Chang glanced back towards the place where he had knelt to clear the brush. “I must continue my work.”

“It’s my work you’re doing,” the colonel said with a flash of anger. He pointed to Kwai Chang’s iron collar. “You belong to me. You work when I say so.”

“You have enslaved my body,” said Kwai Chang, “but not my spirit. You can order me to work, but you cannot make me speak.” Quietly, he knelt and returned to pulling brush. He heard the colonel hesitate for a moment, then turn and walk away.

The days passed, the work progressed.

Kwai Chang began to think he would never be able to show these enslaved men that he was their friend without language. He knew that his endurance had a different quality than theirs—knowing that he could leave when he wanted to, he had kept his sense of being a man. From the beginning he had thought that, with patience, he could win them over to the way of peace and thus free them first in their hearts and then from their chains. But, up to this point, none had even smiled at him. In fact, he knew that they did not care whether he was there or not. Perhaps it was time to leave. But some stubborn part of him would not yet accept his failure. He continued to work.

***

One day Kwai Chang was cleaning out the stalls, the men’s as well as the horses’, and forking into them clean, new hay. It was midday, and the bored overseer in charge brought him outside and handed him a hunk of cheese and bread. Standing by the corral, Kwai Chang drank deeply from the water jug before he began to eat. The colonel and his father walked over to look at the pair of horses inside, discussing the mare’s thrown shoe and how to replace it. When the smith returned to his forge, the colonel lingered a moment, watching the horses. Kwai Chang watched them, too, as he ate his bread. Their beauty made his spirit rejoice. The stallion approached him, arching its graceful neck as it looked at his food. Breaking off a piece of bread, Kwai Chang held it out on his flat palm. The horse snorted and shied, but still watched him. The colonel was by his side in an instant.

“You’re liable to lose a finger,” he said. “He won’t allow anyone near him but me.”

“I do not fear him,” said Kwai Chang.

“You would if I put you in there with him,” the colonel said, chuckling. “You’d be begging for your life in a minute.”

Kwai Chang said nothing, watching the horse. Shaking its head, it moved sideways, ever closer, with delicate steps. For a moment, it looked at Kwai Chang’s face with one eye, then bowed its head and took the proffered food with gentle lips.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said the colonel. “You ever work with horses?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t get any ideas about riding one of them out of here,” the colonel said.

“I do not ride.” Breaking off another piece of bread, Kwai Chang held it out to the animal. “I am but a slave, as he is. I would not make a slave of him for my own comfort.”

The colonel stirred at his side. Without looking, Kwai Chang could feel the fury pouring off him in waves. “You’re pretty damn sure of yourself for a man with an iron collar around his neck.”

“These bonds do not change who I am,” said Kwai Chang. The horse took the bread and trotted back to its mate.

“You’re no one,” said the colonel. “You’re my property to dispose of as I please.”

“What would you do with me?” asked Kwai Chang, looking at him.

The colonel’s face was flushed red, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a furious grimace. “I can work you to death if I like, or I can kill you where you stand.”

“Killing me will not build your garden,” Kwai Chang said, turning away.

The colonel grabbed his arm, and Kwai Chang pivoted towards him, breaking his grip. For a moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. “Don’t be so sure I won’t do it anyway,” said the colonel.

“If I die here,” said Kwai Chang softly, “I am sure it will be by your hand.”

He saw hesitation in the colonel’s eyes as if the man were not sure whether Kwai Chang were submitting or mocking him. In truth he was doing neither, but he realized that the colonel no longer understood what it was like to be spoken to plainly and from the heart by another man. To the colonel, everyone was a tool, good only to be fit to a use in his grand design.

“Colonel,” said Diego uncertainly, “should I take him back to the barn? He didn’t finish with the mucking out.”

“Take him,” the colonel said angrily. “When he’s done here, take him out behind the barn and have him dig a new latrine.”

“But, Colonel, the old one’s just—”

“If he doesn’t finish by dinnertime, work him until he does. Work him through dinner, past sunset, all night if you have to.”

As Diego looked on in surprise, the colonel turned on his heel and stalked away.

After that, although Kwai Chang only saw the colonel from a distance, he was always given the most arduous and humiliating tasks, and was forced to work through mealtimes while the other men rested. He accepted this state of affairs calmly, without protest or resentment. Cruelty was in the colonel’s nature. Kwai Chang was able to endure what he was given, and he would rather suffer himself than watch others do so. He noticed that the other slaves began to look at him, and at first he was encouraged, hoping that they would accept him as one who shared their plight. But, one day, looking up as Taipa glanced at him, he realized that what his endurance had inspired in them was not sympathy or fellow-feeling, but contempt. They had accepted their own enslavement and now saw themselves as weak and worthless creatures. They saw themselves, and Kwai Chang, through the colonel’s eyes.

***

It was late summer and the orchard was almost cleared. The ground that had been exposed was rich with the rotted loam of many years, and Kwai Chang’s bare feet sank into it as he worked. One day the men were taken to the orchard and released from their chain. Great baskets were brought to be filled with apples. Kwai Chang climbed a tree with a basket and filled it, handing it down to be emptied and passed back up to be filled again. It was a hazy day when the sun still shone warm on their skins. The farmhands were burning cornstalks behind the barn, and the smoke hung in the still air. For the first time in months, Kwai Chang felt that this day was different from those that had passed before. The men seemed more alive, their voices less timid when they spoke among themselves. He even heard a laugh or two as some of the others climbed a tree or slid back down carelessly to the ground. As the men sorted the culls for the horses from the apples that would be used at the house, the heady scent of ripe fruit mingled with the smoke. Something about the smell made Kwai Chang think of his boyhood home in China, before the monastery, where the scent of apples and woodsmoke had also signified the end of summer. It was a melancholy scent, and yet it was pungent with the promise of new life.

_There had been sickness in the house for so long that Kwai Chang could hardly remember a time when both his grandparents were well. Even then, his grandfather had brooded over the death of Kwai Chang’s parents, sitting for hours in the same place, and after Kwai Chang’s grandmother died, he hardly said a word all day. Now he was ill, of the same yellow plague to which his wife had fallen._

_It was autumn, and the scent of woodsmoke permeated the air. Kwai Chang spent his days by his grandfather’s bedside, trying to make him comfortable, and his nights stretched out on the floor next to his grandfather’s pallet, barely dozing, alert to any change in the old man’s breathing or any murmured word. He ate when a neighbor brought him a bowl of rice, and then sparingly. He lived on tea, which was the only thing he could force between his grandfather’s lips, drop by drop. His grandfather was burning up with fever, and Kwai Chang could only hope that the fever did not overtake him until his grandfather had recovered, or there would be no one to care for them._

_As he built up the fire to put the kettle on for yet more tea, Kwai Chang saw the apple a neighbor had brought him sitting on a low table in the morning light. It was slightly shriveled now and smelled so sweet it turned his stomach a little. He was saving it for his grandfather, to give him strength when he was better._

_When his grandfather died, the house was suddenly too quiet without his labored breathing. It hurt to look at the apple, so Kwai Chang went outside to sit, head bowed, waiting for his grandmother’s relatives to arrive from the next village. They had not come after his parents had died, but now he supposed they would come to take him away with them._

_Later he sometimes wondered if anyone had ever eaten that apple, or if it had rotted and returned to the earth._

He had just climbed up into a new tree and begun to fill his basket, when he noticed the boy Liluye waiting expectantly under the tree, face upturned. Kwai Chang wondered what had become of the boy’s family. Had he, too, watched his parents and grandparents die? Smiling at him, Kwai Chang gestured towards him with a large, ripe apple and then threw it gently down. The boy caught it, grinning up at him, and impulsively took a big bite from the fruit. Franklin was on him in a second, pulling the apple from his hand and tossing it violently aside.

“You think you can eat whatever you want? Do you?” He shook the uncomprehending boy hard, snapping his head back. “Diego, tell Harris I’m gonna take this boy behind the barn and teach him a lesson.”

Kwai Chang was down from the tree in an instant, striking like the snake, throwing a short, chopping blow to the center of Franklin’s back that made him lose his grip on the boy. As the man turned towards him, Kwai Chang hit him in the chest, casting him to his knees. Hearing Diego approach, he kicked out backwards like the crane, catching Diego’s chin with his foot and sending him sprawling. Yelling for help, Harris came after him swinging an axe, but Kwai Chang grabbed it in both hands and let the man’s own force pivot him face first into the apple tree.

“Hold it!” Compesino and two of the ranch hands were pointing shotguns at him, standing far out of his reach. Kwai Chang stopped, breathing hard. Harris staggered to his feet and threw a punch at Kwai Chang’s face, stumbling when he ducked out of the way.

“Let’s hang the bastard,” Harris yelled, looking around for a rope.

“We can’t hang him, Harris,” said Compesino.

“Why not?” Harris’s forehead was bleeding where it had hit the tree. He wiped blood from his eyes with his sleeve and spat. His face was already swelling.

“The colonel will fire us, that’s why. Let’s tie him to the tree and give him a whipping.”   Compesino motioned at Kwai Chang with the muzzle of his gun. “Take your shirt off, boy,” he ordered.

Kwai Chang unbuttoned it slowly and let it slip from his arms to lie in a pile on the earth. He had known he would be punished for saving the boy. He just hoped that the overseers would not go after the boy again once they had finished with him. Depending on what they did to him, he might not be able to intervene.

“What are those marks on his arms?” Compesino asked, pointing. “Looks like some kinda pictures.”

“They must be tattoos or something,” Franklin said, still sounding short of breath. He spat to one side. “Goddamned heathen.”

Holding guns on him, the men tied Kwai Chang’s hands with the rope, throwing the loose end over the fork in the tree and securing it so as to keep his body taut. With another rope they tied him tightly against the tree by the ring around his neck and at his waist so that the bark pressed into his chest and face, forcing his head back. He was afraid. It had been a long time since he had felt so helpless. He prepared himself for the pain, concentrating upon becoming one with all that surrounded him, feeling the wind in the grass and the live sap running through the old apple tree.

He heard the snap of leather, and a blazing stripe of heat tore across his back. He did not cry out, yet he knew the pain must show upon his face. Another stripe landed beneath the first, and he felt blood running down his back. He closed his eyes.

“Take it easy there, Harris, you’ll kill him,” said a nervous voice. “The whole idea is that we ain’t gonna kill him.”

“I got to make him scream,” said Harris’s voice. “Jes’ let me do that.”

The blows fell, one after another. Kwai Chang had been beaten before, but not like this. No one had ever laid open his skin so that he felt the air moving against his raw, exposed flesh. Five blows, then six, suddenly ten, and although he still had not made a sound except for his labored breathing, he thought he might lose consciousness soon, and he wondered what would happen to him then.

Perhaps he would die. Although he did not fear death, he faced the prospect with sorrow, for he had not yet seen his brother’s face. For these men, for a lie told when he was a frightened child, he had given up the chance to meet Danny. A man could not choose his own fate, but it seemed hard to die without closing that circle. Hard as it was, he accepted it.

And then there were more blows, but he no longer counted them. More pain, but he endured it. His mind was clear and it embraced all things. Mind and body together, he was at one with the hawk wheeling over the hills and the mouse hiding in the meadow.   The innocent horse running in the paddock and the man flaying his back with a leather strap were part of who he was. All things embraced him and his suffering.

It seemed suddenly as if the blows had stopped, although the pain was so great he was not certain. Everything around Kwai Chang had gone silent, and he wondered if he was passing into the realm of sleep. If he did, would he ever awake? A jay cried harshly from the apple tree. Kwai Chang opened his eyes and found that he could still see. The colonel had come into his orchard.

The tall man’s voice rang out, frightening the jay. “What the hell is going on here?”

The ropes were loosened, and Kwai Chang slipped down the tree trunk to the ground. He tried to rise, but his legs would not hold him. He kept still, leaning his head against the tree, gathering strength from it.

The voice was much closer now. “Can any of you men tell me why on earth you’ve gone and laid open the back of my best worker? Him as gave me no trouble and did the work of three men? Harris? I have a feeling this was your idea.”

“He done jumped us, Colonel,” Harris said in his drawling way. “Knocked down the three of us before we got him. Look here what he done to my face.”

“I been wanting to break your face for a while myself, Harris,” the colonel said. “What made him go crazy? What did you do to him first?”

“Why, nothing, Colonel,” the man said innocently. “I think he must be part Injun or somethin’. Anyway, I jes’ wanted to hear him scream. Dumb bastard wouldn’t scream.”

“Get him back to the barn. If he takes fever and dies, I swear I’ll hold it against your wages, Harris.”

“But, Colonel,” the man said, outraged, “he didn’t cost you nothin’.”

As the men approached to haul him up, Kwai Chang struggled to his feet unaided. He seemed to see them all through a red haze, standing there watching him with startled faces. Kwai Chang’s heart was filled with anger. The colonel’s apparent compassion had simply been concern for his property. Swaying, he stepped up to the colonel and looked into his eyes as he had on the first day they met.

“Who are you that you must own the world?” he asked softy. They regarded each other silently, and neither looked away. Kwai Chang was patient; for him the passage of time mattered not at all. For the colonel, who lived in a rush of desire and obligation, time was a heavy weight, a void that must be filled, a race to outrun death. Kwai Chang, although burdened by his wounds and his servitude, did not fear the stillness that mimicked death. He watched the colonel’s face go slack, his eyes blink and shift, his lips part as his breath came faster.

“Well, now, there’s a taste of that impertinence,” Harris said, breaking the spell. “You see why we beat him?” The colonel turned away, looking dazed. Everyone stood staring at him in wonder, from the overseers to the slaves, already threaded back on their chain. And there, with the most frightened face of all, was Hozu, holding a basket of apples he was fetching for the kitchen.

“Colonel, oh, please, listen to me,” Hozu was saying earnestly. “We have made a mistake.”

Kwai Chang stepped forward and the men divided to let him through.

“What’s the matter with you men?” the colonel shouted. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. One of you, go see that he gets to the barn. Get out of my way, Hozu.”

“But, Colonel,” Kwai Chang heard from behind him, “we have made a terrible mistake. That man is a priest!”

***

Kwai Chang awoke face down in the straw of the barn, barely remembering how he had gotten there. For a moment, it seemed as if the world was made of pain. With difficulty he raised himself up on his elbows. A lantern was burning in a corner of the stall. He blinked at the light. The workers had never been given a lantern before. He turned around.

Hozu knelt watching him from several yards away. “You have awoken, Priest,” he said timidly.

“My name is Caine,” Kwai Chang said. He put a tentative hand to his back and found it was covered with a poultice made of a wet cloth infused with herbs. He recognized the scent as a mixture that Master Po had favored to heal wounds. “Thank you,” he said, sitting up gingerly. Pain radiated from every part of his back but he moved slowly through it until he was upright.

“I found the herbs in your bag, and I remembered them from my village in China. My mother used such herbs. Please be careful not to dislodge the cloth.”

“I will be careful.” Kwai Chang’s head hurt and he felt uncomfortably cold. His shirt was lying next to him on the straw. Hozu must have brought it back from the orchard. He thought of laying it over his shoulders, but a few slight movements convinced him that even the poultice was too heavy to bear on his raw wounds. “How long have I slept?” he asked.

“It is near dawn,” Hozu replied. He lowered his eyes. “I hope that you will forgive me,” he said hesitantly, “and perhaps you will bless me.” He poured water into a bowl from a ceramic pitcher and handed it to Kwai Chang with his arms extended and his head bowed low.

Kwai Chang accepted it and drank deeply. “Ah,” he said sadly, “it is because I am a priest that you wish to help me. Is that also why you are sorry to have sold me into slavery?” His head felt light and his eyelids were growing heavy. Already his strength was beginning to fail him.

Hozu covered his face. “I have enslaved a priest,” he said sorrowfully.

“Why should you feel sorrier for enslaving a priest than a man?” Kwai Chang asked gently, his voice hoarse with pain. “They are one and the same, for in enslaving a priest you have enslaved a man.”

“But a priest,” said Hozu, distressed, “a priest is better than a man like me. He is a man who has dedicated his life to helping others. He has reached enlightenment.”

Kwai Chang smiled. “It is but a different path,” he said, “neither better nor worse than yours, old man.”

“When I was young I wished to follow that path,” said Hozu, not meeting his eyes, “but I was not worthy.”

“You attempted the path of the Shaolin?” Kwai Chang asked.

“I climbed the Songshan Mountain. I was a boy of but seven years, but I thought I knew more than others. Everyone seemed dull next to my brilliance, my wit. I knew that they would take me in as their prize student, happy to have me there. This is what my lazy and treacherous spirit told me.”

“All children of seven years think that they know more than they do. And not all are suited to follow the Shaolin way. For some it is a pleasure, but for others it would be a torment.” Kwai Chang exerted all his strength to keep himself upright without swaying.

“Ah, but not all are brought down by their pride, as I was. Many times I have relived what happened, and many times avoided the mistake, but only in my dreams.

“I knew I had but one chance to enter the monastery. I stood outside the gate waiting, believing that when the priest came he would see me and know that I belonged in the order.”

“And what happened to prevent this?” Kwai Chang asked gently.

Hozu met his gaze with eyes full of sorrow, then hung his head and spoke. “When the gate finally opened, I was asleep, dreaming of my future glory as a priest. I awoke to find everyone gone. Dry leaves were blowing across the steps of the monastery in the darkness. They piled up against the gate and I lay among them, sobbing, but the gate did not open again.”

Kwai Chang said nothing. They sat together in silence until Hozu finally looked up at him once more. “Twice my feet have missed the true path, but they will not miss it again. Once I was full of pride, a second time I was selfish and sold you in exchange for my own comfort. You have been my friend, and this time I will help you, Priest.”

“I thank you for your help,” Kwai Chang said, bowing his head. “I would like you to call me by my Chinese name. It is Kwai Chang.”

Hozu’s face lit with pleased surprise. “Thank you, Kwai Chang,” he said.

Kwai Chang faltered and stretched out again on the straw, hoping that the agony he felt did not show on his face. It was possible that he would die in this place. He was grateful to have a companion, someone who would bring him water and say a few kind words. Hozu had led him to this fate, and now, it seemed, he was to lead him through it.

_The third day after Kwai Chang’s grandfather died, his mother’s brother-in-law, whom he had never seen before, arrived and within minutes had thrown him out of the house with his meager possessions wrapped in an untidy bundle. The man’s upturned nose and satisfied grimace when Kwai Chang tumbled in the dirt made him look like a contented pig._

_“But I am your nephew-by-marriage,” Kwai Chang protested. “This is my home, and I have nowhere else to go.”_

_“You are nothing,” the pig-uncle said. “Your father’s weak white blood cancels out your mother’s good red blood. You are not Chinese.”_

_“Where can I go?” Kwai Chang asked desperately, more to the world than to the pig-uncle._

_The door to the only home he had ever known closed heavily, the thin planks shuddering, driving the dust from the lintel into his face. He turned away, coughing, his eyes aching with unshed tears. He had lost everything. He knew not what would become of him._

_“Go to the monastery,” said a whispered voice._

_Kwai Chang turned, confused. “Who spoke?” he asked, a little fearful. A woman gestured to him from around the corner of the house. Could it be his mother’s ghost? Since her death he seemed to see her everywhere out of the corner of his eye, but always when he turned he saw another._

_“Kwai Chang,” the woman said, louder now, “come here!”_

_He took a few steps forward. She sounded too annoyed to be a ghost. He saw her face then and realized that although she was small like his mother, her face was too round, her gestures too impatient._

_“I am your uncle’s wife,” she said._

_“You are my aunt?” he asked, confused._

_“No, no, your aunt is dead. I am his second wife.”_

_“He is not my uncle,” Kwai Chang said sullenly. “He told me I am not Chinese.” The sting of that insult returned with the repetition of it._

_“Go to the monastery,” she repeated, glancing furtively at the closed door of Kwai Chang’s old home. “My husband would not like me to tell you this, because he would think it was a shame to have a beggar priest in the family, but the monks take in poor orphan boys. To follow the Shaolin discipline is not such a bad path.”_

_Since he was a little child Kwai Chang had wondered about the monastery on Songshan Mountain. It was a huge, inaccessible fortress. None who did not follow the Shaolin path had ever seen the inside of it. The Shaolin were known as fierce fighters who were yet men of peace. They wandered around the countryside helping others. He had never seen one of the priests fight, but he had sensed the strength coiled inside them like a snake. “Could I really be a Shaolin priest?” he asked doubtfully. As he said the words, the desire took shape within him, springing up where there had been only desolation._

_“Why not?” She shrugged. “As well you as another boy. Go there and try. But do not come back to this house. It is bad luck.” Opening the front door, she went inside and closed it quickly behind her._

_Songshan Mountain was far from Zhengzhou, more than thirty miles. Kwai Chang had only seen it once and did not know where it lay. A tradesman passed by with his oxcart, and Kwai Chang politely inquired if the man knew how to get there. The cheerful man did indeed know, and he lifted Kwai Chang into the cart, fed him, and stayed with him for two weeks until they had reached the base of the mountain._

_Unlike Hozu, Kwai Chang would never forget his dismay upon reaching the monastery for the very first time and seeing the crowd of boys waiting outside. He was sure that he would never be chosen from among so many worthy boys, but he took his place beside the others standing in the pouring rain. For something he wanted so badly he was willing to suffer, even if he did not get it._

_It was years before Kwai Chang understood that his heart’s desire had been shaped by a woman who had thought of a clever way to get rid of a nuisance. He wondered if she ever knew that her words, however falsely intended, had shaped his life._

When Kwai Chang woke again, another man was bending over him. He looked up into the bearded face and realized it was the blacksmith, the colonel’s father. The man was lifting the poultice to examine his wounds.

“Who knows what this muck is?” he muttered to himself. “I don’t know if it’s doing good or harm.”

“It is an herbal mixture,” Kwai Chang said. His voice sounded weak to his own ears, his breath came fast and shallow, and his skin felt hot. “It does not do harm. It is Chinese medicine that draws the poison from the wound. Are you a doctor?”

The man chuckled and shook his head. “I’m a blacksmith, but I’m what passes for a doctor around here. Used to be a medic in the Union Army.” He laid the cloth back down on Kwai Chang’s back. “You must be in a lot of pain. They really did a job on you. If the colonel didn’t stand in the way, I’d show those lads the gate.”

“What does it mean, ‘show them the gate’?” Kwai Chang was having trouble focusing on the man’s face. He laid his head back down and found that someone had spread out his bedroll under him although he had no recollection of being moved.

“It means I’d fire them,” the bearded man said grimly.

“You do not approve of your son holding slaves.”

The man looked at him sharply. “No. It’s not right. It’s not what this country tore itself apart for. But then you wouldn’t know anything of that.”

“I have heard things,” Kwai Chang said, and his voice seemed to echo in his own head as he spoke, “and I know something about hatred.” The least exertion, even speaking, made him dizzy and sick, but he continued. “In China they tell me I am white, and here they tell me I am Chinese. I am both, and neither.”

The blacksmith was silent for a moment, thinking. “My son is a brave man, and at times I’ve been so proud of him I could burst. During the war, he took care of his men. He knew when to take risks and when to fall back. Every time a man died it was as if someone had torn a limb from his own body.” Kwai Chang was silent, waiting for him to go on. “But he fought like that for his country, not for the freedom of the slaves. He doesn’t believe they’re our equals and he never will.”

“He believes I am less than a man, and yet he was sorry for what was done to me.”

“Was he?” The blacksmith looked doubtful. “I don’t think he feels sorry for things any more. Not since…well, not since we came here.” Reaching out, he felt Kwai Chang’s forehead. His hand smelled of smoke and iron. “You’ve taken a fever,” he said. “It’s not unusual with wounds like that. Whether you’ll live or die, I don’t know.”

“No man knows at each moment whether he will live or die,” said Kwai Chang.

The blacksmith contemplated him for a moment. “Is it true that you’re some kind of heathen priest?”

“I am Shaolin.”

The smith shook his head. “I don’t know what that means, but I think you’re a good man who was trapped in this mess against his will. When you’ve healed we’ll see about getting you out of here.”

“I would like nothing better than to be free, but I will not go unless all the others are freed with me.” Kwai Chang had started to slur his words. He seemed to be passing into a gray mist that blurred the other man’s face.

“I can’t ask my son to do that. He has his heart set on clearing that orchard and building an English garden for his wife. This is going to be the grandest estate you’ve ever seen. He’ll let them go when it’s finished.”

“It will never be finished,” Kwai Chang said tiredly.

The man’s voice rose in anger. “It will be finished when the trees are cut down and the ground is leveled. Then gardeners will come in and plant.”

“He will cut down the apple trees?” Kwai Chang thought of the stately old trees that had been planted by the Spanish many years before. His heart ached in sympathy. His own blood had fallen at the root of one of those trees. “They are so beautiful, they will cry out when you cut them,” he murmured, and fell into a dream.

_He was at the gate of the Shaolin monastery, the gate he had entered a thousand times, but somehow he could no longer remember what was inside. A cold wind blew, and where it touched him it blistered his skin. He lay in the dirt and cried._

_Master Po was standing before him, and a shimmering pool of lotuses seemed to be all around them. “Some flowers open at the surface of the water, and some rise above it when they bloom. But there are still others that open beneath the surface of the pool.”_

_“Then those that open beneath the water have never seen the sun,” Kwai Chang said. Under the clear water, lotuses floated, lit by a green glow from the depths of the pond. He watched, fascinated, as a large bud opened before his eyes. Inside he saw the colonel’s face._

_The man Harris was whipping him harder now. It seemed that Kwai Chang had been standing for years with his chest pressed against the bark of this tree and his back exposed to the lash._

_“Old tree, old father,” Kwai Chang whispered, “I have no skin. Protect me.”_

_Melting into the tree was like sinking into quicksand. He felt his face pass through the wood and at his back the bark closed over him like water. Breathing was difficult, each breath a scalding gasp. But the lash struck harmlessly at the bark of the tree while he was safe inside. The tree clutched him, but he felt comforted, not trapped. Suddenly a searing pain struck his back, seeming to cut him in two._

_“You have killed me,” whispered the tree._

_From within the tree’s ruptured body, Kwai Chang heard the rasp of the saw._

_“Master, what must one do when others suffer because they do not know the true path?”_

_“One must show it to them,” said Master Khan._

_“And what if they will not see?”_

_“One must make them see.”_

_Kwai Chang puzzled over that for a moment. “But, Master, how does one make them see?”_

_“One suffers with them. If suffering is not enough, one tells them what must be done. If telling is not enough, one takes action.”_

_“And if they are content in their suffering?”_

_Master Khan treated Kwai Chang to one of his rare smiles. “Ah, Student Caine, if people are content in their suffering, then they must suffer.”_

“It’s all right,” someone said. “I think his fever broke.”

Kwai Chang was thirsty, his mouth dry as sand. He felt as if he had lived many months on this thin mattress in this barn, flying from vision to vision. His body was weary, for his strength had been consumed in the journey of his spirit, but he knew now what he must do.

He opened his eyes. Three men were before him: the blacksmith squatted down next to him, Hozu sat back in the corner, and the colonel stood off to one side, watching. Kwai Chang had never seen the colonel in this place.

“Will he live?” the colonel asked dispassionately.

“I think he might,” said the smith. “That Chinese medicine must be good for something.”

“As soon as he can walk, get him out of here,” the colonel said, turning on his heel. But before he left, Kwai Chang had seen fear in his eyes.

Hozu brought some bread and milk and Kwai Chang ate gratefully before falling into a profound and restful sleep far from his troubled visions.

***

Awakening, Kwai Chang sat up carefully, feeling dizzy but strangely light, as if he had cast some great weight off his spirit.

“Hey, there,” said the smith, rising from a bale of hay posed against the wall of the stall, “you need to rest. The colonel didn’t mean you had to leave now.”

“I must return to work,” said Kwai Chang.

“No,” Hozu said eagerly in Chinese, “the colonel has promised to free you.”

“And the others?” asked Kwai Chang.

“They will stay,” said Hozu, lowering his eyes.

“Then I will stay too.” Kwai Chang rose unsteadily. “Or we shall all leave together.”

“What did you say?” asked the blacksmith, looking from one to the other. “What did he just tell you?”

“He says that it doesn’t matter that the colonel will free him,” Hozu translated. “He says that he will return to work. Either he will stay with the others, or he will leave with them.”

“How can he walk, or even stand? He can’t work in that condition.”  

“I tried to warn the colonel,” said Hozu. “He is Shaolin. If he says he will work, then he will work. They say that a Shaolin priest can escape from any prison. If he stayed this long in bondage it is because he chose to stay. Kwai Chang, listen,” he said, speaking again in Chinese, “you are lucky to be alive.”

“I know,” Kwai Chang said in English. “I am grateful for your help.” He peeled the poultice off his back and let it fall to the ground. He took an unsteady step, then another, steadier now.

“What will you do?” Hozu asked in a panic. “You are still weak. The colonel will shoot you down if you try to free the others.”

Kwai Chang turned to look at him. The world still seemed fever-bright, and the sunlight pouring in from the barn door made Hozu’s image waver in his sight. “Then I will use my weakness to defeat him,” he said. Even as Hozu continue to protest, Kwai Chang walked out into the sunlight. It was time for him to leave, time for them all. And the colonel would let them go.

_“This evening, students, I will tell you a story about the uses of suffering. There once was a man, a Shaolin priest named Kwai Gong,” Master Po said with the gusto that he always showed when telling stories to his students._

_“‘Kwai,’ like you,” whispered Chen, one of Kwai Chang’s friends._

_“Shhh,” said Kwai Chang. He loved the stories that Master Po sometimes told before the group and did not want any interruption._

_“This man,” said Master Po with a sharp, although unseeing, nod at the boys, “found himself on the eve of a great battle, but he did not wish to fight. Kwai Gong was a man of peace, but the emperor had asked the priests to fight for him. Some of them wished to and others did not. Kwai Gong did not wish to fight, but he did not wish to disobey the emperor. With sorrow in his heart, he prepared for battle and fought for the emperor. After several days of battle, Kwai Gong was killed.”_

_“Ha, ha, Kwai Chang was killed,” whispered Kwai Chang’s friend, who had not liked being shushed._

_“Quiet!” said Kwai Chang angrily._

_Master Po turned to them. “If you two students know the story, perhaps you would like to come up here and tell it.”_

_“No, venerable sir, said Kwai Chang. “We do not know the story. We beg you to continue and we will listen quietly.”_

_“Kwai Gong was killed,” Master Po continued, brandishing his stick, “but the battle raged on. Neither side could gain an advantage, and many men were killed. Although he was dead, Kwai Gong’s spirit could not rest in the face of such carnage, so he devised a plan to convince the emperor to open negotiations with the other side and end the war._

_“Kwai Gong appeared to the emperor as he had seemed in life, wearing the white and saffron robes of a master of our order. The emperor was startled at first to see Kwai Gong, but since the priest did not look like a dead man, the emperor soon lost his fright._

_“‘Ah, Kwai Gong, my old friend,’ said the emperor, ‘now that you are in the land of the spirits, perhaps you can tell me how to defeat my enemies.’_

_“‘Your majesty,’ said Kwai Gong, disappointed, ‘I am not here to tell you how to defeat them, but rather how to befriend them. Are you not sorry to see me on the other side? I can no longer eat or drink like a man.’_

_“‘Yes, yes, I am sorry for that,’ said the emperor, ‘and since you died in my service, I thank you. I am also sorry that you cannot fight for me anymore,’ the emperor added, ‘for you were one of the fiercest of the Shaolin.’_

_“Kwai Gong’s spirit was unhappy that it had not been able to convince the emperor that war was a terrible thing. And as he watched the battle rage and the men fall, he realized something very strange. While the battle raged fiercely, the emperor sat in his palace playing quoits or sipping some liqueur, sitting comfortably on his cushioned throne._

_“‘He has not seen the face of war that the men see,’ Kwai Gong’s spirit thought. ‘I will show him what men see in battle and perhaps he will not be as eager then to send his young men off to be killed.’_

_“So Kwai Gong’s spirit took on the guise of his body when he was mutilated in battle. Because Kwai Gong was so fierce a warrior, it took a hundred chops of a hatchet and fifty arrows and ten blows with a mace to bring him down. His head was hanging by a thread and his face was bloodied. One eye hung out of the socket and one arm was chopped completely off.”_

_Kwai Chang’s companion stuck out his tongue and made a gagging sound. Kwai Chang ignored him._

_“Student Chen, perhaps you would find it more interesting to go lie on your pallet in the dormitory than hear the end of this story?”_

_“No, thank you, venerable sir,” said Chen quickly._

_“Then kindly stop disturbing Student Caine. Where was I? Oh, yes, Kwai Gong went to the emperor mutilated as his body had been in death. When the emperor saw him, he began to cry, ‘My dear old friend, what has become of you?’”_

_“‘Your majesty, I was killed in your battle. Because I fought so fiercely in your service, it took a hundred chops of a hatchet and fifty arrows and ten blows with a mace to bring me down, but the enemy prevailed, and my body went mutilated to its grave.’_

_“‘What a horror,’ said the emperor. ‘But you must be one of the few who was so badly injured in my service.’_

_“‘No, your majesty, I was one of many. The young men who paraded before you with their heads held high and their fighting skills polished to perfection, whole regiments of them have gone to their graves as I did.’_

_“So he left the emperor and returned to the land of the spirits, and the emperor thought on what he had seen through a long, sleepless night. In the morning he prayed, and he called the ambassadors to him and opened a parlay with the enemy. In three days, the war was over.”_

_“Master Po,” said Kwai Chang, “what did the emperor feel the second time he saw Kwai Gong’s spirit that he did not feel the first time? Was it compassion?”_

_Master Po smiled. “Compassion was one thing he felt.”_

_“Fear, then?”_

_“What does a man feel when you show him the consequences of his actions? The other thing he felt was regret.”_

As Kwai Chang left the barn, the light seemed wrong, and he realized with an overwhelming sadness that the trees in the orchard were no longer blocking the sun. Approaching, he saw the men cutting the branches off the fallen trees and putting them in piles. Only three trees still stood. All this had happened in the days when his spirit was on its journey, yet he had not heard anything. Only one of his visions had hinted at the felling of the trees.

He placed a hand on the rough bark of one. It was cold and dead. The sap no longer rushed through its veins to the leaves. He looked at the long lesion where the tree had been severed from its root.   The rings told of the tree’s age, its history, much as a man’s memories built up, layer upon layer, making him the man he would be forever after. This tree had supported Kwai Chang’s body through his ordeal, had lent him its strength, and perhaps some of his pain had passed through its bark into its living heart. He thanked it silently and turned to face the others.

Moving slowly, Kwai Chang picked up an axe and set to work splitting rounds that had been sawed from one of the dead trees. With every motion, his skin stretched, breaking open the partly healed wounds. The sun beat down hot on his back. His wounds began to bleed again, but still he swung the axe in a steady rhythm of blows.

Suddenly Franklin stood before him, holding his shotgun. “If you’re well enough to walk, the colonel wants you off his land,” he said firmly.

“As long as the colonel holds slaves, I will be one of them.” Kwai Chang spoke quietly, but he knew the others could hear him.

“Get along, will you?” Franklin said, sounding exasperated. “I already told you, you got to go.” He nudged at Kwai Chang’s bare chest with his gun, urging him towards the road.

“I will go with the others or not at all,” Kwai Chang said, standing firm.

“I’ll have to kill you.” Franklin seemed unsettled now as if his own threat frightened him.

“Would you shoot a man for standing still?” Kwai Chang dropped the axe and held out his empty hands.

Franklin’s eyes flicked away from him. “Shit, I don’t know what to do,” he said as if to himself. He turned away and walked back to the other overseers. “He’s crazy. I can’t shoot him. He ain’t doing nothing but standing there, and he ain’t armed.”

Kwai Chang picked up a piece of wood and cradled it in his arms. He gazed out across the land, across the road to the coastal mountains. The people of this land had been murdered, their land stolen from them. If he freed them, would they go with him in peace, or would they come back to kill their persecutors?

He heard two men coming this time. He smelled the bitter oil of their guns, and knew both were armed. Cold metal pushed against the back of his neck. “Put your hands behind your back,” Compesino said. “You got to leave now.”

Moving slowly, Kwai Chang turned, forcing Compesino to take a step back. As the gun barrel slipped up to his shoulder, Kwai Chang ducked under it and kicked Compesino’s legs out from under him. The shotgun fired one barrel into the air as he fell. Franklin swore and jumped back, holding his gun out parallel to his body with both hands to keep Kwai Chang away as he stepped awkwardly backwards. Kwai Chang followed him, swift and strong as the leopard, twisting the gun out of his hands and throwing it off to land in the dirt. Franklin stood looking at him dumbly, too shocked to fight.

“I’ll get him for you,” said Harris. Circling cautiously around Kwai Chang, he shook out his whip and snapped it with a jerk of his wrist. It was the tiger who taught Kwai Chang how to catch the leather in mid-air as it flickered out at him and nicked his shoulder. Harris’s face went blank with astonishment. Swiftly, hand over hand, Kwai Chang gathered the leather strap until he reached the end and pulled it from Harris’s unresisting hands. One upward blow from his closed fist to Harris’s chin sent the man over backwards. Kwai Chang dropped the whip at his feet. He did not have much strength left. Picking up the axe, he set to work.

For a long while they let him be. He heard murmuring behind him: the sound of the overseers as they wondered aloud what to do; the workers speaking their own language as they worked, voices tinged with excitement. Still he did not turn, but bent to his task. Without turning around, he knew that the blacksmith had come up beside him.

“What are you doing, son?” the man said kindly. “No one is asking this of you.”

“I am not your son,” Kwai Chang said. “Your son, the colonel, once told me that he had the right to work me to death. My life, our lives, for his garden. His garden will be planted and nourished with blood.”

“No, Caine,” said the smith, laying a hand on Kwai Chang’s arm. But a swing of the axe towards the wood poised on the stump broke his grip, flung his arm away.

There was a commotion behind him. The overseers’ voices grew respectful and submissive. The colonel had arrived.

“What’s he doing?” asked the colonel’s angry voice.

“Working himself to death for you,” said the smith, moving away. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You had to put chains on them. You wanted unshakable loyalty, complete submission. Well, here it is. Do you like it?”

Kwai Chang’s axe struck a knot and bounced to the side, wrenching his shoulders. He gasped in pain, faltered, and nearly dropped the axe. Squatting down, he breathed deeply until his head cleared, then stood and picked up another log.

There was silence behind him, and then the smith’s harsh, whispered words, “Look at him. Look at his back.”

“Make him stop,” said the colonel dully.

“I tried,” answered the smith. “Son, you have to let them go.”

“I’ll let him go. I already said it.”

“Not just him. All of them.”

“No!” The word was a cry of desperation. “Caine, that’s enough. Put down the axe.”

Kwai Chang threw the pieces he had just cut on the growing pile of raw wood and picked up another log. The scent of sap and apples filled the air. He felt dizzy and the sweat stung his wounds. Behind him he heard the sound of a shotgun cartridge sliding home.

“What are you doing?” the smith cried sharply. “You can’t—”

The colonel was standing before him, holding the shotgun towards Kwai Chang with a white-knuckled grip. “Put down the axe and step back,” he said roughly. Kwai Chang did as he was asked. “I want you off my land, do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” said Kwai Chang. He didn’t move. They looked at each other through a long moment.

“Well?” the colonel’s voice was nervous, his eyes wide. A trickle of sweat slid down his forehead into his eyes.

“I will go when we can all go,” said Kwai Chang quietly. Picking up the wood he had just cut, he put it on the pile and reached for the axe.

“Stop!” shouted the colonel. The shotgun’s muzzle wavered in the air. Kwai Chang let the axe handle fall back to the earth. “Why are you doing this to me?” the colonel asked, his voice a raw plea.

“I am simply working,” said Kwai Chang steadily. “Is it not the place of a slave to work, perhaps to die, for his owner?”

“You’re different,” the colonel said, letting the shotgun’s muzzle point to the earth. “You’re not a born slave, like these Indians. There are some men that just have to be…they can’t…” His voice trembled and died out. “Please go,” he said softly. “You’re not my slave. You never have been.”

“I will go when you let us all go,” Kwai Chang answered.

The colonel looked at him, his face haggard and flushed. “I can’t. The work isn’t done.”

“When?” repeated Kwai Chang.

“Let them go, son,” the colonel’s father said coming over to take the colonel’s arm and guide him a few steps away. “I can’t believe that any man could fight as you fought in the war and still keep slaves. It’s against all right and reason. Can’t you see that?”

“It’s just him,” the colonel said, shaking his head. “He’s part white. It was a mistake to take him on.”

“He’s just a man, and because of you he nearly died. He might die yet, and even if he lives he’ll bear the scars of that whipping all his life. Or have you killed so many now that a simple beating done in your name doesn’t matter to you?”

The colonel held back a hand as if to strike him and then lowered it stiffly. “How dare you talk to me like that? How dare you reproach me? To build this place, I had to get them off the land, didn’t I? I didn’t know how hard they’d fight.”

The blacksmith held out both hands in mute appeal. “The Spanish lived here and let them stay up there on the hillside. Even they didn’t massacre whole villages.”

The colonel turned his head aside. “I thought they’d run away.”

Kwai Chang stepped away from the pile of wood and walked towards them. “You killed the people from the villages in the hills,” he said, trying to meet the colonel’s eyes. “Are these the only ones left?”

“The only ones who stayed,” said the smith. “He captured their women, and they—”

“Enough of this!” the colonel shouted furiously. “Are you talking to a slave now, a Chinaman? I’ve had enough of your disloyalty.”

“And I’ve had enough of my loyalty,” said the father softly. “I don’t know what’s become of you, Tom. You used to be a man worth following, but not anymore.” For a moment they stared at each other, appalled that things had reached this pass.

“It’s all his fault,” said the colonel, gesturing at Kwai Chang. Raising the shotgun, he pointed it at Kwai Chang’s chest. “He stirred up everything, things that are best forgotten, things that I had to do, that no one could reproach me with.”

Kwai Chang faced him, knowing he could not avoid the shotgun blast. Hozu came up and stood by his side.

“Colonel, please,” begged Hozu, distraught. “Do not kill this man.”

Kwai Chang reached out and pushed Hozu a little further from him. “Please,” he whispered, “do not stand too close or you will be hurt.”

“A white man has a responsibility to bring civilization wherever he goes,” the colonel went on. “All I was trying to do was tame the wilderness. These Indians did nothing with the land. You should see the way they lived. The huts, the nakedness, the filth…” He brushed a hand across his forehead, suddenly unable to continue.

“And now they live chained in a barn,” said Kwai Chang.

Hozu must have leapt as the colonel’s finger brushed the trigger, before he pressed it hard, because his chest was level with Kwai Chang’s when the blast of shot hit him, throwing him back against Kwai Chang, who fell with Hozu in his arms.

Hozu’s chest was an open wound that air whistled though when he breathed. Kwai Chang wished he had something with which to stanch the bleeding, but it would have been of no use. Splinters of bone stuck out of the ruined flesh, yet Hozu’s heart was still beating.

“Will I die, Kwai Chang?” he wheezed.

“I thank you for my life, my friend,” was all Kwai Chang could say.

“I owed you my life because I stole yours,” said Hozu. “I lied to you, Kwai Chang. I did not come from Santa Rosa that day. I came from the south, like you. Your brother might still be in Santa Rosa. I know nothing of him or his rodeo.”

“I know,” said Kwai Chang. “I knew on the day you told me the lie.”

“Ah…you knew. And yet you chose to walk with me.”

“Yes. I chose.”

“Thank you.” The words were barely a whisper of exhaled breath. When Hozu died his eyes grew still and glazed.

There were leaves on the ground from the fallen trees. Gathering a handful, Kwai Chang covered his friend’s ruined chest with them and brushed the hair back from his face. He had not known that the price of his freedom would be Hozu’s life. Now there was nothing else to do but stand and face the living.

The colonel stood as still as a statue, staring at the shotgun lying at his feet it as if it were a snake. “Are you a devil sent from hell to torment me?” he asked dully.

“Those who believe in hell often create their own,” said Kwai Chang. “It is time for this to end.” The iron collar still shuddered dully against his collarbone when he moved. Reaching up to his throat, he took the iron ring in his hand and twisted it, twisted it hard, using all his strength and concentration.   When it shattered with a sound like a shot, the collar opened and fell off his neck. Bending, he did the same to the band around his ankle. He stood, feeling slightly dizzy. Now that he was free, it seemed as if the strength was pouring back into his body, dulling the pain from his wounds.

“Who are you?” asked the smith uneasily. “No ordinary man could have done that.”

“And yet I am only a man,” said Kwai Chang. Looking down at Hozu’s body, his heart was filled with sorrow more bitter than the pain he had suffered at the overseer’s hands. “Just as you are a man. As he was.”

_Sitting, arms hugging his bent knees, in a dim corner of the sanctuary where he thought no one could find him, Kwai Chang was surprised to see Master Khan standing over him. His teacher seemed to have materialized out of thin air, so silent had been his arrival._

_“Are you troubled, Student Caine?” he asked kindly._

_“Yes, venerable sir. My heart is heavy.”_

_“And why is that?”_

_“I am sorry that Student Hwong was forced to leave the monastery.” He gripped his knees tighter._

_“Why are you sorry? Was it your fault that he left? He used the skills we taught him to injure another student, one who had done him no harm.”_

_“No, Master Khan, it was not my fault. But I wonder if I could have spoken to him more often. Perhaps if I had been his friend, he would not have injured Student Wu.”_

_Master Khan nodded. “And so you feel responsible for an event that has passed. You feel regret.”_

_“Yes, venerable sir.”_

_“Although you know you cannot change what happened?”_

_“I tell myself that, Master, but still I continue to feel this way.”_

_Master Khan smiled and beckoned with one hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”_

_Kwai Chang rose obediently, his heavy heart just the slightest bit lightened by curiosity, and followed his master through the sanctuary to the door that led out into the courtyard. Down the steps they went and around the corner, down another flight of steps to another small court that Kwai Chang had never seen._

_“This is the masters’ meditation garden,” explained Master Khan. “No student must ever come here without a teacher.”_

_“Yes, venerable sir.” Kwai Chang was puzzled. Why bring him here?_

_The small courtyard was very beautiful, with a bubbling fountain and large rocks carved from the mountainside on which the masters could sit, and circuitous paths on which they could wander. At the center was a large, beautiful tree, obviously very old, with great branches that stretched out across the whole garden._

_“This is a beautiful and peaceful place, Master. Perhaps it will calm my heart.”_

_“Yes, Student Caine, perhaps it will. But I have something else to show you. Come, look at the tree. What do you see?”_

_They approached the trunk together. Kwai Chang ran one hand over the rough, ridged bark. “It is very old,” he said tentatively, “and it—” He broke off suddenly, seeing._

_Set deep into the tree was a great iron ring._

_“How did it come to be there?” asked Kwai Chang. “Did the tree grow around it?”_

_“Yes. Long years ago, when it was a sapling, one of the monks placed a ring in its path. The tree had to grow, but the metal was in its way. So instead of refusing to grow, it grew around the ring, but it could not transform the ring into part of its substance.”_

_Kwai Chang touched it, running his hand to the point where it entered the bark, around which a deep, discolored lesion marred the tree’s symmetry. “But a tree cannot refuse to grow.”_

_“No more can a man,” said Master Khan. “Have you ever seen the rings inside a tree?”_

_“Yes, venerable sir. There is one for each season.”_

_“Yes, trees have their rings as men have their memories of each season of their lives. When a man has troubles, he collects regrets. If he can turn them into part of himself, as the tree turns its troubles into its own substance, he can grow stronger. As the tree’s rings show us when there was fire or drought, so a man’s memories show us when there was trouble in his life. But if he keeps the regrets apart, to dwell on them, he becomes like this tree, which has iron in its heart but is not the stronger for it. And so a man can choose to keep his regrets apart or to incorporate them into himself, growing ever greater in wisdom and courage.”_

_“And so I can learn from what happened to Student Hwong,” Kwai Chang said thoughtfully. “It becomes a part of my experience.” And although they both spoke only of Student Hwong, master and student both knew that this student’s heart was still weighed down with the iron ring that was the death of his parents. From that moment, he began to let them go.  
_

_***  
_

Kwai Chang walked down the road. A cold wind blew across his path from east to west. In the cloudy sky above him, a wedge of geese honked as they traveled south. Winter was coming, and yet Kwai Chang moved north toward Santa Rosa, following the trail of his brother. The road that had looked so golden in the light of the noonday sun all those months before was dull and cluttered with dead leaves. No matter. He would follow Danny until their paths finally crossed, whenever that might be.

The colonel had finally let them go. Kwai Chang had gathered his things from the barn, ready to leave, when Taipa, who had always watched him furtively, walked up and addressed him in English as if they had always spoken. “Why did you not fight before?” he asked.

Kwai Chang looked at him silently for a moment. “Why did you not speak before?”

“We did not trust you. You are white. I am the only one who speaks English and I did not want the other whites to know.”

“I am Chinese,” said Kwai Chang, “and I was a slave like you. The same iron bound my throat as yours. Why did you not trust me?”

Taipa shrugged. “White, Chinese, makes no difference. You are not of the Miwok people.”

“I am a man like you. I fought to defend the boy and I was beaten for it.”

“Yes,” the man said. “He will never forget you, and he wishes you to know his name. It is Liluye.”

Kwai Chang inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Please tell him that I will never forget him or his name. Does the name ‘Liluye’ have a meaning?”

“In the days before our misfortunes, he was eager and fearless, and his voice rose above all others. He was named for the singing hawk that soars in the sky beyond our sight, when the white man does not shoot it down for pleasure.”

They were silent for a moment before Kwai Chang spoke again. “Where will you go?” he asked gently.

“This was our land, but the Spanish stole it and now it belongs to this man. We have no home. We will take our women and travel west to the mountains where some of our people might have gone.”

Kwai Chang had nodded and begun to walk off, but stopped when a sudden thought struck him. “Tell your story. Do not let it die away.”

Taipa shook his head. “My people will die away. The whites have taken everything. Of what use is a story?”

“Someday others will know the injustice that was done here.”

“I and my seed will be long dead. The only useful thing would be to kill this man and take back our land, but others would come and make us suffer for it.”

“To kill him would not bring back your happiness,” Kwai Chang said softly.

“The balance and measure in all things have been destroyed. And so it would do my heart good to see that man lying dead, but I shall not be the one to kill him.” Taipa turned away.

Kwai Chang watched Taipa walk through the ruined orchard and spit as he passed the loose pile of abandoned chains lying there. He hoped that the Miwok people would find peace. He knew that their road would be difficult, but what of the colonel? Would that man understand someday that freeing them had been the right thing to do? At the end of a life full of selfish deeds, would the thought give him one less regret?

Kwai Chang would never see Taipa or the colonel again, but the despair in Taipa’s voice as he spoke of his people would remain forever vivid in his mind. He would always carry with him the memories of what had happened on the colonel’s ranch, as he would always carry the scars on his body. A man had tried to build his dream upon the suffering of others, but he had found only guilt and lies. Kwai Chang had done what he could to change things, but it had not been enough.

The cold wind blew across the road, stirring the dust and wiping away the footprints of men and animals. Kwai Chang walked down the road, chased by the wind, thinking of the past. What was behind him, he knew, but of what lay ahead he was ignorant.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Morgan Dawn and CatalenaMara for their comments and help.
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please don't forget to return to the archive and leave a comment.


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